Yeah. We all know what happens.
He might have Pentagon level security on this place, but the Guild tracking us this close? The vultures will circle the entire neighborhood until they find her. And by extension, him, and me. We’ve both got an open contracts on our heads.
She stands there, thinking. Too quiet.
Then she puts her switchblade straight into the fire.
“Saint,” I say immediately. “Think about what you’re doing.”
“I have,” she says.
She’s right. Every assassin in the Guild is after her. Her contract expires in hours, and instead of dropping, it’ll spike. They all turned on her. Even if she clears her name… someone set her up. Someone high enough to get her contract past the inner circle. Get it to the Guildmaster’s desk.
If he approved the hit, there is no level of the Guild she can ever return to again.
Frank thrusts a bottle of whiskey at her like it’s first aid.
She takes it without blinking, pours some on her wrist then takes a long swallow. There is no hesitation when she presses the glowing blade to her wrist.
The smell hits first. Burnt skin. Burnt ink. Burnt identity.
Her jaw tightens. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t flinch. She holds the blade steady until her own sigil sears away in a dead-black line.
When she’s done, she holds her wounded wrist out and I catch the faint tremor she’s hiding. Frank nervously scans her again.
Nothing.
He lets out a long, shaky breath, slumping into a chair like he just survived a natural disaster. Grabs the closest bottle beside him—God knows what’s in it—and drinks deep.
“You can stay,” he says. “Shower. You stink.”
That’s rich, coming from a man who decorates with human-skin lampshades and ramen containers, but I’ll take the win.
“You got everything I asked for?” I say when Saint excuses herself to one of the showers.
Frank glances around like the walls are listening. “Yes, but you need to pay double. You shorted me a body.”
“The broker will cover it.”
He sniffs, clearly unconvinced, then waddles off through a side door. A second later, the unmistakable smell of noodles and broth seeps in. Must lead straight into the ramen shop’s kitchen.
I hope to God he’ll come back with something edible, instead of the usual… whatever he eats.
I finished my shower first. Hot water stings the bullet-wound at my shoulder, but it does what it needs to—rinses off two days of blood, sweat, and cross-country corpse transport. As soon as I knew we were coming here, I had my broker send over a care package. Fresh clothes, boots, a new shirt that doesn’t smell like the inside of a body bag. I requested one for Saint too—figured she’d either appreciate it or stay in hotdog scented leather. Which I highly doubt.
When I stepped back into the main room, I grab a trash bag from under the sink and start clearing off the table. Takeout containers, rusted tools, a handful of things that definitely used to hold something that previously had a pulse.
The arm is gone—hopefully Frank put it in his fridge. Hopefully.
Saint emerges minutes later in clean clothes, hair damp, skin flushed from the hot water. She looks… lighter. Human, almost.
“Thanks for the clothes,” she says.
I nod. No point making a thing of it.
Frank returns—praise whatever deity handles miracles—carrying stacked to-go containers of ramen wrapped in plastic,steam fogging the inside. Behind him shuffles an old woman with a hunched back and a red apron, like she’s been cooking noodles since the Industrial Revolution. She sets down a bag of sides, a carrier with a tokkuri of warm sake, and several chilled bottles of Kirin.
Then she’s gives a polite nod and smile, backing away and leaving through the same door.
